


Finding Fenris

by wolfinpink



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinpink/pseuds/wolfinpink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris' worst enemy has always been himself since the shackles of his former slave life fell to his feet. And now he's held hostage. In the fade, tied into his worst reoccurring nightmares by powers Hawke has yet to uncover. She's going in after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Little Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fellow Dragon Age Addicts! This is my first longer fic, there'll be about 6 chapters. I've done most and am just fixing them up and shall post every few days I suppose.  
> Set after Danarious dies but before the reconciliation, friends.  
> WARNING: There is violence and pain and suffering everywhere since we're delving into Fenris' mind and later there will likely be non-con. Not referenced, not implied, but actually written. I'll tag it in the beginning notes if/when the chapter comes, and when it is if you're not up to it.  
> Thank you and goodnight.

**I.**

_Where are you, little wolf?_

There is only thick liquid darkness here. The duality of shadows, in which a source of brightness is required to cast them, does not exist. _Light_ has no place in this place. Enough time in the black and Fenris’ own body has lost its form to him. It was hard to imagine himself being anything but one with the blackness.

He felt he no longer had the lean legging-clad thighs he barely remembered by the light of day, now he just felt the cold scratchy wood that never seemed to warm. His eyes, once burning with their insistent peering, searching, _wishing_ for a source to see by had stopped stinging an unfathomable amount of time ago. A distant realisation that his eyes were closed came to him. But the muscles he’d need to change that now belonged to the blackness that embraced him.

Somewhere in the dark, he could detect the livid strings he’d cut into his eyelids with panicked fingernails, if only for the hooked reminder every time his heart would beat fresh blood to them.

A steady pulse of discomfort threaded its way through where he imagined his temples to be – before his form was swallowed by perpetual blackness. The needling pain that pricked at the sides of his skull softly reminded him that his physical body remained. Just swaddled. An unwelcome thought.

The last throbbing leftover that the darkness had yet to swallow into numbness was his heart. Every now and then it would struggle against a chest he was sure wasn’t there anymore. It beat dully into the lightlessness, two thrums at a time. A fervent ‘fuck-you’ to an enemy he didn’t want to fight any longer. He simply wanted to quietly become liquid. There was a promising peacefulness in everything he couldn’t see. Giving in wasn’t a path he’d chosen, because there were no other choices, it was all that was left to him.

_Nothing to close your jaws around here, little wolf._

In the edgeless space he’d melted into, thoughts were no longer contained behind his hungry, guarded eyes. They swam bold, through the air for no one to see.

But he sees. Clearer in this gloom alone, than in a hundred sunny Hightown days spent watching every shining, gleaming thing fall short to _her_ brightness.

_Whining wolf, seeing collars where there was only kindness._

Hawke. In a time when his world wasn’t just quiet, black waiting, he had watched her bring shadows to heel! No place for a wolf to hide, when just the light from her eyes was enough to give the slanted black shapes that stood at Lowtown’s back pause.

The darkness broke into pieces. A sound had cracked against the stillness. A name on his lips. His vocal cords tensing at the familiar crescendo of her name. It was soft and ragged and wretched with disuse but he said it aloud to the darkness all the same,

“Hawke.” But that was from another time; a tactile world where things were a thousand different shades he was already forgetting the names of.

He wondered vaguely at how he became to be swallowed. He couldn’t recall. The thought slipped through his fingers before he could grasp it with enough strength to question.

_Stop waiting for ghosts, little wolf._

 

***

 

“Yes, well, I was never one for waiting around.”

Cold moonlight swathed the street in grey tones, darkening the rings around Hawkes eyes and deepening the creases curving around her upturned mouth. Looking up you could see the barest blush of stars through the pillars of smoke, jetting from Darktown’s industrial slums. Here on the docks though, the air was kept clear with the possessive pull of sea breeze.

Varric huffed a chuckle as he swung Bianca onto his back, “it’s true. Never cook with this woman.”

Hawke’s grey smile widened, but she kept her eyes trained on the fellow below her. She let her leather boots grind against the armour on his chest, as if working to press his lungs together like two pieces of wet paper. Her staff’s winged blade could already taste the blood at the man’s throat; tiny lacerations made from the barest shivering of shallow breaths.

“How long will I live once I tell you?” The man tried to return Hawke’s confident smile, but his bloody teeth from Isabella’s swift kick to his face made him look more like an opened jam donut than a man.

She wasn’t one to turn to the sharp edge of a blade before testing the sharper edge of her tongue first, _but for slavers_ – she could justify making an exception.

“How long will you wish to?” Hawke asked sweetly. She reached for the lightening in her veins and in a moment it had jumped from her blood, leaping down her staff to lash into his crackling skin. He didn’t scream. _Couldn’t_. Tinged purple arcs drove themselves over his reddening flesh. He convulsed beneath the weight of her boot. The magic crackled around his throat, through the skin and needled his vocal cords in a silent spasm.

Hawke felt Varric grimace behind her and she slowly pulled her magic back.

“Oooh, toasted Tevinter. My favourite.” Isabella appeared on their right as she stalked up to stand at the man’s lolling head. She toed his face over as he winced.

“Merrill’s done all she can.” Her eyes snapping up to meet Hawkes, “Sweet thing’s a bit worn out. But she’s ready.” The blood-magic contingency plan. Not her most popular, Hawke knew, but any port in a storm. Ooh, Fenris was going to be pissed if they found him.

 _When_ , she corrected. A little leftover lightening caught in her chest; it pulled at the hooks that had made her heart their home when he was first taken.

“Shall I take this out to the trash?” Isabel’s fingers wiggled over her dagger as the tip of her blood-smothered boot mussed the slaver’s hair.

“Not yet. If this goes the way Anders thinks it will, we’ll need to have another _less-civil_ chat with our friend.”

The rogue nodded once, “Forward thinking. I remember that. But guard duty isn’t really my forte.” She removed her foot from his face and bent down to grab roughly at the man’s arms. She dragged him into a somewhat stable standing position. To his credit, the slaver barely moaned as his cracked ribs bit together in an audible grind. Hawke hoped to Andraste this blood business worked, because she had a feeling he wasn’t going to be very forthcoming.

“Do we have any rope? Twine?” Varric glanced at Isabel, “fluffy cuffs?”

She smiled slyly and drew a pair of familiar shackles from behind her back – the Kirkwall guard emblem embossed into the curve of pale iron.

“Aveline must never know.” She winked and slid them onto the slaver’s wrists, tightening them till they nipped at his skin.

“Well then,” Varric turned to Hawke, “let’s see if we can’t scare up a broody elf with some blood magic.”

See, the problem wasn’t the blood magic itself, even though that had been a tough one to sell, it was the super-terribly-dangerous-bad idea of _trusting a demon_ that made the whole thing harder to swallow. Like nug-shit, as Varric had cheerfully labelled the plan. With those candy coated nuts on top that get stuck in your teeth, except in this instance the nuts were demons and the teeth were Merrill and Hawke and Varric didn’t fancy the idea of an impromptu extraction. Hawke had made a lot of terrible plans in her time, but this one was gearing up to be the worst.

 _And possibly the last_. Her throat tightened.

The faint tang of lyrium had settled into the bones of the warehouse; it prickled Hawke’s tongue as they entered. It also sat uncomfortably next to the newer, filthier taste of unwashed skin and, thanks to them, the darker, sicker smell of split slaver.

By the time Hawke had come to stand by Merrill in the centre of the great building, cat walks leering above them with the empty promise of another ambush, the others had pushed the bodies to the side; giving the Dalish mage room to concentrate.

And stretched in front of her, tan skin paling with each passing hour to match the mottled stone he lied against was –

 _Fenris._ Hawke crushed the urge to fall to her knees at his side. Before she realised, she was scanning the room and the half-thought came to solidify behind her eyes before she could check it – that she would be on her knees if the others weren’t here. She’d have his head cradled in her lap by now. She probably never would have left his side at all, if not for the strength her friends had given her.  The realisation made it hard to breathe, but it also sheltered her. The way armour _does_ , she supposed. The kind they gave her was just safe guarding her sanity instead of her flesh. She glanced around again at her friends, a little softer, a little more grateful, before returning to the stretched out body below her.

Shrivelled lines of lyrium raked Fenris’ body, pulled of all their power from a fight that had finished half a day a go. They had arranged him as comfortably as they could; his hands rested awkwardly on his stomach, a strange shadowing of Merrill as she bent over him, both of their eyes closed.

She was sat eerily still; so still that Hawke’s breath had become unconsciously shallow so as not to disturb even the air. Brown leather clad legs bowed beneath her, she knelt on the mottled stone floor with her hands clasped in her lap. It was a strange contrast to Merrill’s usually constant, striking bird-like movements.

By the wall, Anders had let himself slump into an undignified sulk as he bored holes in Merrill’s back. Aveline quietly spoke to Sebastian by the stairs leading up into the various offices. But even they weren’t immune to the impossible quiet Merrill had unknowingly brought upon them all and Hawke couldn’t hear a word they said to each other.

The entire building seemed to bow with the weight of Merril’s silence.

After a moment, Hawke turned over her shoulder to Isabel, “I thought you said she was done?” Even though the sentence barely rose above the sound of a breath, it seemed to permeate the thick stillness that had swaddled them all.

“Oh!” Merrill snapped to attention, “I am. Sorry. Are we ready? I’m ready. I was just trying to remember if I’d watered the elfroot on my windowsill today. It gets awful stuffy in my home for a place with so many holes.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Varric’s mouth, “I’m sure one day won’t kill it, Daisy.”

“But any amount of time might kill Fenris.” Aveline cut her way across the cold room in a few easy strides, Sebastian on her heels.

“What a shame that would be.” Anders mumbled.

“You know how I feel about this.” Sebastian. His blue eyes somehow managed to make the distance between himself and Hawke feel like nothing. As if they were suddenly nose to nose.

“I know.”

“Then there is still nothing that I can – ”

“No.” She said, a little harsher than she’d meant, but there could be no more apologies here. Hawke would stride into the golden city itself and sit in the maker’s own throne if that’s what it took. The way his chin lifted at her expression, she had a feeling her eyes burnt with the unspoken sentiment.

“Well enough.” He replied, “I cannot remain here though. I hope – ” he straightened his bow on his back and took a few steps around Merrill to place his hand on Hawke’s shoulder, “I hope you find him well.”

“Hush up lovely, we’ll be done here faster than a Rivani dancer can get you out of your pants and we’ll meet down the pub for drinks later. Well, maybe not _your pants_.” Isabel bared her teeth at Sebastian, a smile that was more growl than grin.

Hawke’s hand found his on her shoulder and she nodded once. There could also be no tears here.

No time for them. No place amongst the stiffening corpses. No _strength_ left in her to stop if she began.

Sebastian seemed to feel the lump forming in her throat, threatening the wall of confidence she’d painstakingly built and let his hand fall. He strode past Varric and Isabella out into the moonlit docks.

“Then there were six.” Anders said, straightening a little as he shuffled forward to stand closer to the rest of the group.

“Will it still work?” Hawke glanced down at Merrill.

“I hope so. I mean yes. Yes? Yes.” Merrill bolstered her answer with a string of furious nods.

“We don’t have time. I’m not a fan of this Hawke,” Aveline came to stand squarely in front of her but for Merrill and Fenris between them, “but if this is what needs to be done, I won’t stand in the way of finding him. How do we begin?”

Varric moved into place between Aveline and Anders. Isabel sidled up next to Hawke’s left, a menacing wink thrown to the crumpled body of their captive by the wall, completing the makeshift circle. Something cold, smooth and hard slid against Hawke’s outstretched palm. She gripped it tight enough for anyone trained with such a weapon to see she had no experience with knives.

But she knew which end drew blood at least. Anders piped up from his corner when no one moved to answer Aveline’s question,

“Bit o’ blood. Bit of magic. Then Merrill sends Hawke’s spirit into the fade. Essentially helpless. To ask a _demon_ for help in – ”

“Anders.” Hawke scolded. Although it wasn’t an explanation bereft of truth.

“finding an arsehole who certainly wouldn’t be doing any of this for any of us.” He finished uncharitably. Hawke sighed, and shot a small smile to Aveline that she hoped was as comforting as she meant it to be. The woman’s unmasked paling expression was certainly evidence enough she needed some comfort. But it was in short supply all around she suspected, her gaze coming to rest on Fenris’ heartbreakingly blank face. She’d always thought he would look peaceful without his signature scowl, but instead of the peace she’d hoped for she found he just looked empty. Hawke eyed the glint of steel in her hand, starlight had wormed its way to glance off the blade from a broken tile in the ceiling. She took another deep breath.

“We begin like this.” And with a nod from Merrill, Hawke dragged Isabel’s dagger across her open palm.

 

***

 

_Who’s blood is on your breath, little wolf?_

The gates closed behind him.

Tiny beads were being beaten from his brow the way only the Minrathous sun could wring the sweat from your bones. He lifted his chin, breathed the smell of dust and death, listened to the cawing of countless voices somewhere above where it’s too bright see, crying out for pain that is anyone’s but theirs.

It wouldn’t be his.

“-of Magister Danarious – ” Fenris’ ears pricked at the sound of his master’s name, “has graciously lent us his personal slave and bodyguard for this fight, he – ” just the announcements. All the same, without prompting from his stilled mind, Fenris twisted in a fluid motion to where he knew his master sat above somewhere swaddled in sunlight; he bowed deeply. The voice continued to echo down into the pit as he straightened, but its only words to him. And words didn’t belong down here against the rough sharpness of the stone and the sanguine stains. His body was tense and coiled, muscles hummed with the flush of adrenaline to be burned.

Lyrium dully thrummed in thick lines down his arms, his back, his chest. It came to life in a fat pulse from a swallow in his throat, rolled down his body like an electric promise, till it bent at his ankles, curled at his toes as they dug for purchase in the fine dust.  Rising around him in great sun bleached bricks were the walls of the arena. They curved in a small thick circle, towering above his head, ending in the rounded silhouettes – they felt so far away – of too-eager viewers bent over sharp iron rails.

He could be from one side to the next in a few short strides, the size meant to discourage any half-baked ideas of flight. Fenris let an intake of breath turn his muscles to stone and as he exhaled his body loosened, strangely light without the comforting weight of the two-hander sword at his back.

But he didn’t need a sword to show his master the hearts of his enemies.

_When did you become only your teeth, little wolf?_

The gates opened once more and Fenris turned to face them fully. His legs planted far apart, arms at his sides, hands clenching and unclenching. The metal claws of his gauntlets scraped at his steel-clad palms. His lyrium had begun to flicker constantly, a stark contrast to his slow and steady heart.

This is where he was safest. Just one man to kill. No one to protect but himself.

No slave would hope for a reward from their master, but there was reason enough to be happy when you left the arena after making them proud. Ropes of muscle contracted beneath Fenris’ armour in anticipation. He wore silence like armor as well and when he heard his name being screamed from just out of view, it didn’t disquiet him. Then

– there she was.

A rough hand guided her – no, _guide_ is too hard a word for the fierce bite the fingers had in her shoulder but either way she was in the arena and the gates were closed. She was taller than Fenris. Well-built. Wild grey eyes too cool against the baked red earth for comfort. Stitched vines tangled around her body, somehow chaotically precise. They bent around her legs and arms and torso like ribbons, seemingly keeping her modest by sheer force of will.

But those _eyes_.

_Remember her blood, little wolf?_

“Fenris.” She said again, but this time he watched her lips make the word. How did she know him? There was fear in those eyes. But not of him. She tried to look up to where she was obviously afraid, but the unforgiving glare of a sun not meant for her skin, gave her no lenience. Both of them blind to anyone but each other.

He began to circle her. His heart not as steady as it once was. Another test? A different test. Would he still slaughter someone who pretended to know his name? A ludicrous one if it was that – of course he would.

He didn’t spare a glace up to where he knew his master sat, even though he longed for the clarity of his expression; to see if a test was what this truly was.

She had noticed his circling and had begun her own. But there was nothing predatory to the way she moved. Prey may shadow the pattern of a wolf; it doesn’t make it one. But at last she  started to see where the threat truly lied. Her features twisted into something like pain, as if he hadn’t been clearly –

_A rabid little wolf all along…_

“Please.” She spoke. The deep swollen hum of her voice familiar in a way Fenris didn’t think he liked.

Her brown hair was pulled back in an impossibly long braid and it fell to the small of her back, flicking back and forth with every step that skirted the thick brick wall. She tried again to speak a sense into him he no longer had since – he never had it. Didn’t have it _yet_.

“Fenris, don’t you remember me?”

No. He answered only to himself. But even that lie twisted in the darkness of his chest. But he had had enough of this game, if that was what it was, and he took hold of the curling familiarity in his heart to crush it. Enough.

He sprung forward.

She shrieked as her legs got caught beneath her, stumbling backwards. But there was only so much space before a wall greeted her back. His right hand met her face and the claws of his steel gauntlet bit into the flesh of her cheek. They dragged down her skin in three thin bloody lines. She blocked the next blow meant for her stomach, but it still bruised her arm. He is all sunlight on steel and a hardened heart and she is soft, cold leaves from the – from the –

Seheron jungle.

 _Those eyes_. He staggered at the memory; just enough of a moment for her to close around and she snapped a strong fist at his face, the power behind it that of a practiced warrior. Not so helpless then. They broke apart, both tasting blood.

“We helped you.” She spat. This anger wasn’t hers. She never had this. Never was given the chance to find it before she died. Was killed.

_Another thing broken by the will of your jaws, little wolf._

The blood from her cheeks ran to her lips, slid into her mouth as she panted. He remembered – a softer, cooler place with the same red running into her mouth, but sweeter. Berries they’d harvested _together_ for a feast he doesn’t completely recall, only feels the hole in his heart at its absence. Sitting on fallen trees, one among many breathing in heavy mist and _her_ : on her lover’s lap being fed red berries by soft stained fingers.

Her hands had been in his hair. Slow circling. The sweet easy affection of someone never stung by it. Never had it used against them. She’d seen him staring, seen the way his eyes tracked her fingers through the lengthy strands falling past her mate’s shoulders. She’d smiled as he’d shied away.

“Every one of us.” She cried. And there was no time to be choked with memories. She charged with all the strength that her frame looked it allowed and she buried her shoulder in his sternum. Her bones cracked against the steel chest plate but this didn’t slow her. He was driven back into rough wall, the air bludgeoned from his lungs. One long leg crooked around his ankle and in a moment they were both falling. They hit the ground together.

Her fist connected with his jaw in a low crunch below his ear. Pain bloomed from the left side of his face. She drew back for another hit but his gauntleted hand caught her, tight enough around her wrist to bruise. She writhed in his grip, more beast here than woman or _fog warrior_. He managed to pull his knee up to his chest beneath her as she spat and screamed till her voice cracked with roughness. His muscles contracted and with a graceless kick he freed himself from her weight. She sprawled to the floor as it only took him a moment to regain his feet.

“All dead, Fenris. How many seconds of doubt did you give yourself before following his order?” She spoke from her place in the dust. Taking her time to roll off her back and find the balls of her feet, she stayed low though, crouched like a taut spring.

There are no words that can comfort a dead. And if there are, they don’t come from the mouth of her murderer. If nothing else, he won’t kill her. Not again. Not when the blood of her kinsmen was the only colour he could truly remember from his time in the Seheron jungle. For all the cool blues and greens and muddy browns, he remembered best the way blood in the wet jungle of her home fell against the fallen leaves. It’s her turn now, to have his blood spill on the hot sand of his home.

He closed his eyes. An invitation. A promise.

He heard her form shift in the dust. It’s slower than he thought. He had imagined she’d leap at the chance. But her footfalls were soft and slow and _steady_. He commanded his body to be still. Told every muscle to allow death to come, didn’t bother telling his nerves that were on their ends and so very aware because he deserved to feel every moment. She stopped in front of him. The scent of sweat and leaves and that cool sense of rain on dirt filled his nose. And then –

A gurgle. A wet pained sound escaped her throat. His eyes slowly opened. She’s closer than he’d thought. Those grey eyes bored into him with hatred even then. But they only held his stare for a moment, before trailing down to see his silver arm, swathed in raging blue light, buried in her chest.

His fingers twitched, and could feel the soft muscle of her heart tense inside her, claws already punctured its beating chambers.

He gasped and tried to pull back but the damage is done.  When he wrenched his hand out of her body, her still-beating muscle came with it. She fell with a dull crackling thud of tort vines to the dust and he was left holding her heart once more.

_Dead again, little wolf, is death all you’re good for?_

***

 

Anders had put up a considerable fight when it was his turn to take the blade. A string of curses the length of Hawke’s leg had fallen from his mouth; some even Isabela had had a tough time believing she’d heard.

But now they all held their sliced palms out in a small ring of dripping crimson. Thick red drops languidly fell from their self-inflicted wounds but before they could paint the ground, Merrill had swept them up into a shimmering swirl around her body. Her eyes had given way to a deep red, it reminded Hawke of her velvet curtains falling thick and soft around her 4 poster bed. It was a rich royal colour, but for the tangy copper taste of blood that left no one’s senses free from assault. Distantly, Hawke thought she was going to need to buy every single one of her friends a regretful gift for this. Was there a ‘sorry to drag you into this blood magic bullshit’ bouquet?

The thought was whisked away as quickly as it had come, returning to the mist of her mind as blackness prickled her eyesight. This is it, she thought. Her teeth clacked together as her jaw set, not coming back without him. Probably should have sat down for this. Her legs trembled as Merrill began to send the sparkling mist to lick at her limbs.

I hope someone catches me.

But she’d left her body before she could feel Isabela’s arms shoot out to cradle her crumpled form. Her spirit, in a torrent of crimson coppery magic, was banished to the fade.


	2. Familiar Hallways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is dragged through the fade - and into Fenris' nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is non-con written ahead. So if that bothers you, please skip it!  
> Otherwise, enjoy the angsty angst and pain. Feel free to tell me what you think in the comments.  
> Sorry this is a bit late, I moved home and the internet is non-existent.  
> Fenhawke Junkie, out!

**II.**

 

“Hello.”

The greeting was strangely small in the expanse she’d found herself in. Her voice sounded strangled and nasally. A quick glance down told her, yes thank the Maker, she still had her own body. A trip back into her childhood form wasn’t an ideal way to start a monster hunt.

Everything here felt like you were looking at it through the shimmering stained glass of the chantry. It was taking longer than Hawke would have liked for her eyes to adjust.

Pfft. Her _eyes_. She wasn’t even really here, how could her eyes be adjusting? And with that thought, the glassy tear-prickled sight she’d been left with blinked away.

She was standing on the docks of Kirkwall. Sort of. Everything looked like it manifested from blue mist, like you were just as likely to touch solid steel and wood than you were to shift right through it’s swirling mass. But the stone beneath her feet was real enough as she scuffed her heels against its gritty texture.

“I said hello.” That time the voice certainly wasn’t hers. Hawke sharply turned to the source behind her. A blank wall greeted her scowl. A little giggle floated past her ear, so close she could swear that warm breath licked at her lobe. Right, she thought, swiping at the right side of her face, not disconcerting at all.

Hawke swallowed her first reaction of ‘is anybody there?’, she wasn’t about to turn so readily into one of Varric’s characters. Instead she turned slowly on the spot.

She was outside the warehouse that they’d performed the ritual in. She contemplated checking inside for Fenris, but abandoned the idea immediately. The fade wasn’t that simple and if that wasn’t enough to dissuade her, her patented string of rotten luck was.

The boats lashed to the moor were older than the ones in her Kirkwall, and she squinted at the wall of the warehouse, the skin of the building was fresh, free from chips and nicks. The bite of age yet to leave its mark in the stone. Shrill voices were carrying from somewhere farther up the wharf, all indistinguishable: from distance or because they weren’t meant for her, she didn’t know.

“You need help.” It wasn’t a question. She twisted on the spot again, craning her neck to see over the rusting mottled metal spikes and into the water. Some creepy water demon, maybe? Who knew in the fade?

“Not wet, silly.” The voice giggled, “had enough of the sea.”

Okay, well. She’d come here for a reason, may as well get this show on the decidedly creepy road it was already steering her down.

“Help. Yes. But I’ve got to warn you, I’m not really the abomination type. The lifestyle seems a little crusty to me.”

“Worried we’re going to get under your skin?” The voice’s usually nasal pitch deepened for a moment. Like something underneath rumbled to the surface, before winking back out of existence with a girly flourish.

“I like my skin the way it is,” Hawke continued to turn on the spot, she was getting a little dizzy trying to navigate all avenues of possible attack, “when it’s mine.”

“Nothing is yours here, Champion. We don’t even belong to ourselves.”

Yay, riddles.

“Listen, not too sure how it’s done in the fade but it’d be great to see your face. It’s what’s done in polite circles.” Hawke drew in a deep breath, gathering a freezing liquid bolt of ice in her gut, just in case. The voice let out a snort.

“No circles, little mage.” The voice solidified, becoming the only thing in the blue ethereal world that felt it stood with any strength. Like a single breath could blow this reality away. Slowly a form created itself, pulling white swirling energy from the stone beneath it. Hawke took a single step back, her stomach muscles clenching with the effort of keeping her Winter’s Grasp in place.

The energy strengthened into two stringy legs and two malnourished arms, a grimy simple shift hiding the rest of a small girl’s body – a small girl _elf_. Large pointed ears struck out from her mattered black hair. A regular filthy urchin soon stood in front of Hawke. The only feature that told a different story were her giant black eyes, clear and cold, like smoothed stones in a deep rock pool from years of water’s caress. They narrowed at Hawke.

“Only slaves here.”

Hawke’s grip on her magic faltered for a moment as she drew in a sharp breath. Of course. The fade simply reflected. Reflected this place, reflected her. And what was Kirkwall before the rebellion?

She turned again, seeing the docks in the stark new light of clarity. Imperium logos, stamped into the wood of towering boxes. The boats, brine-eaten and weather worn with little care taken, when a single rotten plank could take anyone working on it to a watery grave. The voices, too shrill for a dock worker’s gravely shouting and so sharp, so full of pain. Indistinguishable because they weren’t words carried down the wharf, but screams.  Hawke drew her gaze slowly back to the little elf in front of her – the little _slave._

“I see.” Hawke’s voice came out far too strangled for her liking. She clenched her gut around a new bolt of ice. Keep it together, lady. How hard will it be to find one run-away slave in a city full of slaves? The thought caught her off guard. If it had been fully formed, she might have been able to push it away, but as it stood the worming uncertainty that she had never let grow in her heart came to rest in the centre of her mind. Did she still think of Fenris as a slave? If the fade was merely reflecting her and it manifested a city full of slaves for her to search. She shook the thought away.

 _No_. She knew Fenris was free. This is just one more nightmare to live through. A side effect of whatever spell they’d shackled him inside of. It helped a little. But the splinter of doubt still sunk in her heart.

“But you are not a slave.” This time, Hawke’s voice was steady, “you are a demon.”

That seemed to prickle the little elf girl’s sensibility. She blew a huff of air out her nose. In that moment, she looked more like Hawke had denied her a sweet than accused her of demonhood. She folded her lithe arms.

“Do you want to play or not?” The little elf could scowl with the best of them. Hawke was reminded for a moment of Fenris’ champion frown, wondered if it was an elf thing. She’d never seen Merrill angry enough to say.

“No. I don’t want to play. I want help to find my friend.” Hawke was done messing around. She wanted out of this place.

“Helping _is_ playing.” She smiled, glinting feral teeth appeared below her dirt smeared lips.

“Then let’s play the ‘help me find my friend or I turn you into a demon popsicle’ game.” Hawke grinned back; a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The little demon laughed shrilly.

“We’re playing my game here, little mage. You’re in my sandbox after all.”

“If you’re not going to help me, I’m going to find a demon who can. It’s not every day the Champion of Kirkwall strides into the fade looking for a demon’s help.” A pause here. The small creature glared at Hawke from underneath thick unblinking lashes. She slowly unfolded her arms, and they came to hang limply at her sides. Her inky eyes with undefinable irises shined with unnatural wetness. Finally, she smiled.

“It’s not every day her elf lover is stuck in a nightmare either.” Hawke froze. How? She let her mind gingerly touch the walls she and Anders had constructed around her thoughts. It wouldn’t be too hard for one to wriggle its way out, but she had assumed she was stronger than this. Apparently her first mistake. Her second followed swiftly:

“Andrastae’s tits, demon. Take me to Fenris.”

“Fenrisss.” The little girl let her tongue slip on the last letter. It rolled around her mouth like a candy she was savouring, that she didn’t want to crack between her teeth lest it be over too soon. “Ahh, yes. That’s his name. You know where he is, don’t you?”

Hawke kicked herself for losing her head. God damn little demons, always so much more dangerous than the big ones with melty skin and giant claws.

“If I did, I wouldn’t need help now would I?” She hissed.

“Such a mouth on you, little mage.” Any hint of innocence had long been choked out of her façade, “he’s in every one of his nightmares.”

Hawke levelled her glare at the impossibly reedy frame in front of her.

“He’s trapped in a nightmare?” Her throat closed around the last syllable, barely a catch in the word, as her heart started pulling in her chest.

“Every one. He’s living his worst fears over and over. A new one coming to fill the void when he’s completed the one before.” Wet pointed teeth peeked from behind the girl’s sweet smile, “I hear he’s quite the screamer.”

Hawke’s hands balled into fists at her side, so tight that nails cut into her fake fade skin. Fake skin or no, it still _hurt_. Her teeth grinded together, she could feel her ragged heartbeat in her jaw – like the bones of her skull were expanding and shrinking with every pound of hot blood.

“Take. Me. To. Fenris.” She snarled through gritted teeth.

The little elf barely registered Hawke’s growing rage. She flapped her fingers at the mage in a little flourish, half turning away to gaze over the ocean.

“For a price, I’ll do just that.”

“I already told you, I’ve got too many public appearances as Champion to get a nasty skin condition now. I am unusually vain.”

She turned violently then, pointed ears flushing pink. Her smooth stone eyes seemed to darken further. The nasal sting to her voice stripped away to sweep low and gravelly. A growl vibrated at the back of her throat.

“Listen carefully, little mage. You will not find him without me.” Her teeth flashed, as she stalked forward, crowding Hawke even with her tiny body. She got close. So close the tangy stench of sulphur crept into Hawke’s nose and mouth.

“But I don’t want your pitiful flesh. A favour though…” She let the sentence hang as she drew back half a step. Hawke dared not give any ground to the creature.  She turned her head, lungs eager for a gulp of air that didn’t swirl with the scent of demon’s breath. Her eyes stayed their course though, demon and mage bored unblinking at one another. The girl continued,

“Give me a favour of yours, so I can collect one day and I shall lead you right to the heart of his nightmare.” The dirty shift of coarse cotton that hung ridged on the demon’s body swept lightly at Hawke’s tense arms. The scratchy stitches snagged on her tiny hairs as they stood on end.

“Collect –” Hawke began to question.

“Yes. One day when I need something, I shall present you with the favour so you know it’s me and you shall oblige.”

“And what, pray tell, would I be obliging you with?” Hawke’s air of politeness made moot by the gag she held back, her tongue threatening to crawl down her throat.

“The mortal realm isn’t the only place where conflicts arise.” She said simply, “sometimes old enemies return. And having a Champion up one’s sleeve, well –” she took another step back, allowing Hawke a slow deep breath, “that could bring the game to a whole new level.”

Never trust a demon. It was mage 101. This wasn’t as simple as, ‘hey come on back and beat up on my old enemy please serah Hawke’. This was a lie twisted inside another lie, and she didn’t know if she preferred the candy coated preface of dishonesty or would rather a demon who just tried to worm its way into her skin.

A wail shook her abruptly from her thoughts. It was a deep choked thing of lost breath, torn from the lips of someone who was struggling to suck in air. The deep rumbling cry she recognized too well, but for the call of her name. _Fenris_. She narrowed her eyes at the demon in front of her, watching a wicked grin pull at the corners of its mouth.

A trick.

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut but the sound just got louder. Another deep growl of agony ripped its way through her heart. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

An effective trick.

“I promise.” Hawke’s eyes flew open as she fumbled for the Amel pin holding her overcoat closed. Fenris’ cries died instantly. There was a moment of hesitation, but Hawke didn’t have time to reconsider as tiny eager mud-stained fingers closed around the pin and left her palm empty. She took a deep breath as the creature gripped her hand around the keepsake, before unclenching her fingers to reveal it had vanished.

“Now,” her ribs felt three sizes too small for her chest and heart, “take me to Fenris.”

The creature smiled and nodded once.

 

*** ((non-con ahead, falons))

There was a place on the lush rug where the fibres had worn away. You couldn’t see it if you weren’t perhaps searching for it but Fenris’ knees always slid snuggly into their place. His back _ached_ , wrists clicked as he moved them lightly against his bare thighs. Collar at his neck just tight enough to allow him to breathe but every swallow against his swollen tongue made the leather bite into his throat. How many hours had he –

_Open wide, little wolf._

No. Passing the time by counting it was not a wise decision here at the foot of his master’s bed. Instead he went back to counting the threads of plush cashmere strands. They twisted together in plump colonies, spiralling in several curls. He wondered how they came to twist like that under the weight of so few feet. Just his. And his masters.

There were 897 threads in one set of twisting columns just out of reach of his right knee. If he constricted the muscles in his thigh, he would move just forward enough to feel the bare brush of their curling caps against his skin. But that constricting soon became another discomfort, quickly discarded and picked back up only to become painful faster the next time and the next.

At his bare right elbow, there were 4 knots in the darkly stained wooden leg of his master’s bed. Two had a thin ribbon of honey coloured stain snaking into their centres. He shut his eyes. Six small dots disrupting the flow of a rich muddy red swirl of the third knot. How many micro cracks were there in the fourth? He thought seven. Seven tiny lines small enough to appear straight to his naked eyes, cutting across the thick cyclone. Or was it eight?

Fenris’ eyes flicked open and his back straightened. His spine whined from the tensing of tired muscles. His body reacting to the sound of soft footsteps before it could register in the conscious part of his brain. A trait not uncommon in slaves. Good slaves. The quiet click of heels against polished stone quickened his heart. Close to one hundred bodies moving within the mansion’s walls and he could pick out his master’s approach among them all.

“My pet.” Danarious opened one of the heavy double wood doors to his bedroom.

“A tiresome affair. A more fitting punishment perhaps to have let you attend.” He closed the door softly behind him, and swept into the centre of the room. His heavy maroon robes brushed against Fenris’ hip and for a moment a fist closed around his already constricted throat.

_Where’s your howl, little wolf?_

Fenris stayed silent, but raised his chin and lengthened his arms until they were straight, fingers gripping into his bare legs lightly. His eyes stayed on 897 threads now touching his knee.

“Help me with this.” The magister flicked his wrists over to expose a row of gleaming gold buttons that fastened his gloves. Fenris was standing, steady before he allowed the scream of pain, wrenched from the quivering muscles in his lower back and legs. He locked his knees as he turned to face his master, smoothly eliminating any tremors that threatened his stance. Danarious showed apparently no thought for the abandoned position he’d been in for nine hou –

fasta vas! He _had_ been counting.

His fingers were fluid as they deftly undid the buttons. Gentle regular clenching had allowed his hands to avoid becoming cramped. He took a deep slow breath to steady the room as it shuddered a little (when had he last eaten?) as he made quick work of the left glove.

A mistake: that breath.

There it was. The scent that had slithered into every crack of this room now began to curl tightly around him, stronger with the source so close. He smelt like rich wood left in the sunlight too long. And old, old spice that was stuck at the back of your tongue so you couldn’t really taste it but you couldn’t swallow either so it just sat there and _burned_.

He plucked the last button of the right glove, and his hands quickly withdrew, coming to clasp tightly at his back. Eyes slowly slid along the rug until they found the 897 threads.

“Hadriana asked after you.” Danarious chuckled, “was sorry to hear you wouldn’t be attending the night’s sworie.”

Perhaps nine hours on his knees wasn’t so bad if Hadriana’s company was the alternative. His calves seemed to angrily thread with pain at the allowance.

“Had to have Leero serve her wine and of course his nervous teeth chattered half the night till she took them out.” He turned away to place the gloves on his dresser but Fenris could hear the smile in his voice still. Ah, of course it was Leero. He remembered the scream.

“I’m sure he now wishes you’d taken his heart.” He dropped his shoulders slightly as he spoke, still turned away. Fenris moved to wrap his fingers around the heavy velvet of his over coat and slid it off his master’s arms. Danarious turned with a smile crooking his lips and nodded for his slave to put the coat away.

Fenris took two strides to the wardrobe and replaced the coat on its hanger. Behind him he heard the rustle of a silk bed spread being crushed by heavy velvet and when he turned his master had sat himself on the side of his bed.

“Next time, I’m sure you won’t hesitate when I ask for it, hmm?”

Fenris returned standing to his place at the end of the bed, hands tidily clasped behind his back.

“I won’t, master. This slave begs forgiveness, master.” His voice was vaguely unfamiliar to him after so long in the quiet. It was strangely high for how much it grated against his thick tongue. Still, speaking sliced into his jugular as the collar rippled along with each fluctuation of muscles in his neck.

“Good.” Danarious said softly. He lifted his fingers and crooked them once. Fenris was standing in front of the seated magister in a moment, eyes still reverently cast off to his right.

“How would you like that collar off, my pet?” He spoke soft and dark and disappearing into the room, barely lit by the strangled moonlight slicing in through thick drawn curtains behind the slave.

“If it pleases you, master.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh.

“Knees, Fenris.” The words slid off his tongue like they were oiled.

Fenris obeyed, his steady hands coming to rest on his master’s thighs like they had rested on his own for so long. His body seemed to sting everywhere with the stretch of being back on his knees. But the bleat of pain barely made it into his throat, let alone to his tongue. Well exercised fingers pulled at the robes of his master’s waist. A pleased hum rumbled above him.

Was it seven or eight tiny cracks in that bed post knot?

Danarious’ hand found its place on the back of his head. Long, squarely clipped nails running the length of his scalp in languid pulls. His heart had slowed to nearly nothing. As barely a beat as you can manage without ceasing. He freed his master of the buckles clipped at his hips. The velvet weight of robes were dragged up to pool at his belly. Fine black pants pulled down his coarsely haired legs till they sat in makeshift shackles wound ‘round his ankles.

Fenris closed his eyes. One, two, three, four tiny cracks. He remembered how they sliced through the thick curve of the spiral.

That burning spicy scent drove down Fenris’ nostrils and clawed at his throat. Black smalls joined the mess of clothing crowding his knees. A groan trembled through the body above him as his loosened hands found their way between impossibly warm thighs.

Five, six… seven. Seven cracks. Was there an eighth? Soft velvety flesh strengthened under his palm and he drew a breath that burned. His tongue slipped out to briefly touch his lips. The hesitation that squeezed his heart didn’t make it to the rest of his body and he pulled himself forward to take his master into his mouth.

A hiss.

One crack at the tail, the beginning where the colour is brighter. A second just next to it, so it looks like two fingers. He can’t breathe. Not with the collar so tight and his throat so painfully full.

A third is diagonal across the thickest part of the curve. Fourth is the biggest crack. It’s not just black, but he can see dust gathering at its apex.

Nails have turned sharp on his skull. Every inch of his body below his shoulders replies with stiffness. Each buck crashes against the back of his raw throat.

The fifth one is easy to miss since the colour deepens to near black at the centre of the knot. But it’s there. The sixth is the smallest and yet easy to see: stark through the lightening half of the wood’s swirl.

_“Oh, my little wolf.”_

The seventh is near the centre, it’s close but it doesn’t quite cut clean through the middle. His eyes prickle with unshedable tears.

Eight. _Of course._ Is the continuation of seven, but for a tiny break in the –

A deep growl that ricochets off the walls of his master’s chest and rolls down to tremble his legs and he’s flooded. Twitching warmth. Slicks against his swollen tongue and soothes his battered throat. Burns less for now. It leaves his lips.

He swallows and drags in quiet breath after quiet breath, too good of a slave to choke. The moments afterwards are too long, another nine hours on bruised knees would be more welcome.

Finally, softened unsteady fingers unclip his collar and the buckle rattles against the candle labra as it’s tossed to the bed side table. Funny how even in its absence, the cut of tight leather barely seems to have retreated. The hand settles back to card through his hair gently.

There is a sick comfort here. Fenris’ body loosens a fraction at the affection. Against his will. There’s no stopping the speeding up of his heart, or the coldness retreating from his chest. The whine threatening to escape his wetted lips. Instead his body betrays him in a small shiver of contentedness.

“You may go, my pet.”

He doesn’t stand as quickly as his previous movements. But he stands and nods and crosses the room. As he attempts to crush the partly unfurled warmth in his gut, his slick hands pull the bedroom door open just enough to slip his slight frame through.

“Goodnight, master.”

“Mmm.”

He retreats into darkened halls, a sanctuary for sick wolves.

_Ha ha ha._

 

His eyes may as well be shut in this blackness. But he doesn’t need sight to navigate the maze of twisting stone and smooth wood that has been his home since he was brought, unable to scream, into the world; searing silver lengths of lyrium cutting lines in his flesh.

His stride has quickened, but even for a moonless night that he knows this night is not, this place is complete in its pitchlessness.

His body is all at once flush against the stone wall. The cold palms at his bare legs and naked back, prickles his skin beneath his smalls. Footsteps he doesn’t recognize. Not a single one of the house slaves should be up at this hour, none would risk the master’s wrath. Thieves then? Idiotic. Creeping into a magister’s home. Into _Fenris’_ master’s home. Someone wishing for a quick death? He can oblige. His blood sings for violence.

His fingertips edge closer to the corner, as his back shifts against the wall. A quiet has fallen over everything. An unnatural quiet, bitten at by the hushing of breath.

“What the blazes was that? Where are we?” That voice – Fenris chokes silently on the air – Can’t. Be. Here. It is quiet and barely dares to come above the sound of a whisper.

A frustrated sigh, and a second lower voice that sounds like it’s choked with rocks:

“Fool, little mage. We have entered your elf’s mind. We are no longer in my slice of the fade.”

“Great, your Kirkwall wasn’t really my cup of tea. Not that I drink tea. More of an ale girl, myself.” Her voice is rising, becoming more confident, “it’s so _dark_. Where is he?”

“Close.”

This isn’t how it goes. Fenris reels at this new wound, this new gash in his sanity. Where is the blackness that swallows him? The arena? The – his fingers have whitened under the strength of his grip. He should run. She should _not_ be here. There isn’t enough of him to spill if another thing pierces his heart.

“Surprising that the walls aren’t dripping with wine if we’re in his mind. Sure you’ve got the right elf?”

This is another trick then. The alternative is too much to bear, that she is here is not an option. Definitely a trick. But he will not allow them to use her to torment him. He shredded himself into strips and stitched his mind back together too many times to disconnect her with pain. She does not belong in his nightmares.

She does _not_.

The air hums with energy as his lyrium flickers to low life. It burns as it always burns. But it is a distant agony beneath the ripple of his ready muscles. He presses the flushed side of his face to the wall and peers around the corner.

She’s there. Swaddled in darkness. A smaller shape shifts beside her. He is surprised when it is the one to give life to such a grave voice:

“This is where you wanted to be. My part of our deal is done, Champion.” The words ring with a sick smile that he can’t discern in the night.

“Lovely meeting you. Piss off.” Her voice is too much of the song he remembers. It stirs a light in his chest that he doesn’t wish to see this place by. She doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t do her justice to walk these stinking, pain stricken halls. He will be fast. For both their sakes.

His jaw sets as he lowers his gaze from her face that he can barely see anyway. They focus on her chest. The line of her throat that drags down to where her heart is, where her heart won’t be for long. A breath. It pulls into his nose and fills his lungs. That stale hot scent of sun heated wood, the scrape of old spice against his tongue turns his resolve to steel. This is right.

Blazing blue light rakes down his body, it chokes back the darkness and the snaking vines of his searing lyrium are reflected in the hallway’s polished stone. A gasp, the figures turn a fraction to see the light, but he is already on his way. His body fluidly negotiates the corner and in barely two strides he is at her throat. A blast of hot tender light from his hand and the swirling illuminated patterns that run the length of his knuckles are gone – buried in her chest.

 

“Fenris.” She chokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, stay tuned for more pain and misery, and a short (har-har) Varric POV.


	3. Vice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...Deadly, silent... Which was why when his skin all at once became a vice, the lines of lyrium seeming to tighten like a string pulled over raw flesh and someone screamed – it didn’t register straight away that it was him." Fenris is in pain. But not for long, I swear. Hawke drags her broody elf out of his nightmare encased mind but just because the nightmare is over, doesn't mean their escaping so easily.

**III.**

 

Hawke’s chest sets alight in pain.

Found you.

The blue shining figure in front of her bores his darkened eyes into the stone above her left shoulder instead of her face. The pressure between her stalled lungs feels like her heart is expanding, but she knows that in reality, strong lean fingers are restricting it. Her eyes flick down to follow the familiar lines on his chin as they branch over his bare chest.

_Oh_. Found you…

The thought is squeezed from her as his fingers tighten. Everything in the hall now is suddenly alight. A tapestry licks at the grey stone at his back. The stark reality of this nightmare is painfully obvious. The deep shades of luxurious cotton sewn together in a soft mockery of Minrathous’ hot, hard central city is held in the tapestry. The reddened curve of a collar’s welt twists at Fenris’ throat. Her guts turn over. Danarious’ mansion.

His knitted brow does nothing to mask the pain his mouth is twisted into. Another exquisite stab twists in her chest and she snaps her head around to see if the demon is still there. The creature smiles sweetly, obviously waiting for this moment, and wiggles her dirty fingers at Hawke as she dissipates.

Never trust the little ones, ugh. She turns back to the face that is inches in front of hers. The straightness of his nose is so close she could brush her own against it. A poor decision in light of the heavy hand that now palms the delicate walls of her heart.

“Fenris,” she chokes out again, air is a luxury in this moment, “I found you.” A weak smile plays at her lips.

“You will not use her.” His voice was liquid heat against her face as he snarls. But his eyes refuse to meet hers, preferring the space outside her ire.

“Please,” she whispers because whispering is all she can manage but he tightens at that. Right, no begging.

“You’re in the fade.” She tries. His lips turn up briefly in a feral smile, eyes somehow maintaining the scowl.

“I am in a nightmare. One which I shall not allow you to be a part of.”

Hawke wants to move, but she is no longer holding herself up. The strength of his frame is all that is keeping her from falling to the floor.

“Listen to me.” Her voice rasping now as darkness begins to speckle her sight, “you’re stuck in your own mind and I’ve come to help you.”

He remains still.

“I’m real, Fenris.” The notion seems to cut into him deeper than the fact that he is trapped in his own personal hell, features wringing themselves of anger and pulling into agony instead. But his grip loosens a little. His eyes slide to hers in the darkness. They glint green by the light of his shining lyrium. And Maker, they _hurt_. But she swallows dryly and continues,

“Let’s get out of here.”

Fenris narrows his eyes at her.

“Hawke?”

A little nod is all she has left in her. But it is enough. He keeps her gaze a moment longer, before seeming to crumble, his hand retreating from her chest as he backs against the adjacent wall, a soft thud as he crashes into the tapestry.

She is free. Air rakes into her lungs, and her heart throbs. Pain blooms and shoots up her thighs in tendrils as her kneecaps slam into the stone beneath her. Her hands ache to clutch aimlessly at her chest, but they are the only thing stopping the rest of her body from joining her trembling legs on the ground.

A small choked noise comes from above her and she takes her time before looking up. Fenris has pushed his faintly glowing body against the wall in earnest. Flattening himself as far as he can. He meets her eyes and it is enough to crush her heart all over again.

She curses that this is the first time she has ever been able to study his markings in any detail, with him more a cornered rat here in the maze of twisted memories she’s found him in, than the man she took to her bed so many years ago. The lyrium dips and curls around his shoulders, shoots down his arms in spirals that veer off from the main thread. She hadn’t realised they were so numerous, as the duel lyrium bites that grace his chin divides over and over as they fall down his chest in sweeping swirling lines, curving at his hips, disappearing below his smalls. In the darkness she can make out a pair of faintly glowing duel threads raking towards his centre; she forces her eyes along to his legs. Here the lyrium is no less decorative as it follows the strong muscles of his thighs and winds around calves before dividing again to grace each toe. She constricts her vocal cords, tests their mettle for his sake before she speaks,

“I’m fine.” It sounds convincing.

His body is ridged, his arms move a fraction, perhaps to help her up? But they halt and don’t move again. She pulls herself into a standing position, using the wall behind her as leverage and then there they are. Standing against either wall in a darkened hall of Fenris’ worst nightmare.

“Are you alright?” It’s the only thing she can think of to say and it pales in the warm night. Surprisingly, he snorts. His lyrium veins withdraw them both into sudden black. Without any source of light, they are wrapped in near total sightlessness. If Hawke squints she can see the line of the roof, adorned in gold flourishes now just a thick black line.

“A typical question from you, regardless of who’s heart nearly left their body.” Fenris retorts without humour. Seemingly more comfortable without having to see her face. Well, she prefers not to be stuck without sight in a tortured ex-slave’s mind. She calls on a small wisp and it curls from her open palm, separating like a bubble off her skin into the air. Fenris only grimaces a moment, before his features smooth back to settle into a scowl. The wisp stops short above her head, pulling lightly on the invisible string that ties it to her aura.

“A typical response from you, seeing as we’re trapped in your nightmare.” Ooh bad choice, Hawke’s smile fades instantly at the flicker of hurt that briefly stings Fenris’ eyes.

“Lets, ahh, get you dressed and skedaddle.” She pushes off from the wall, the wisp following like a balloon with a mind of its own, casting a dozen shadow-Hawkes on the stone around her. They dance in tones of blue-grey below her robes, dipping into the smooth crevices in the cratered walls.

“I swore to Isabela we’d be back before the Hanged Man closes.”

“A confident promise.” He replies. He has come to stand in the centre of the hall, his strong form casting a darker wisp shadow behind him.

“Yes, well, I am very skilled in these matters.” She takes a deep breath, she _was_ skilled in these matters and if Ander’s educating her was at all correct, and the hallway she stood in really did belong to who she knew it did, there was only one option – Maker, she hoped he’d keep his ghosty fists to himself this time - “so, killed him once, shouldn’t be too hard to punch his ticket again?”

To Fenris’ credit, he doesn’t pale. A barely readable stiffening of his joints is the only sign he’s even heard her, let alone understood the ramifications. He circles her swiftly after a moment, intense forest eyes narrowing under their knitted brow. She doesn’t give him any ground; merely stares back with what she hopes is more confidence than she feels.

“There is no need to linger here. I have,” a tightening of his shoulders, “completed this nightmare.” His voice dips lower than usual, an unnatural rumble so deep it echoes in her own chest. Her heart snags, still tender from the vice grip of his hooked hand.

Her eyes unconsciously slip down to his throat to follow the ribbed red line curving above his adam’s apple. Her fingers twitch at her side, but remain in their place. His steady gaze draws her sight back to his. An unspoken question here. She pulls on the rough gasp of healing magic she has settled in her skin. But he senses the rise of prickling energy in the air and turns away.

“Anders told me,” she softens her tone, “that confronting whatever is keeping you here may be the only way to disrupt the pattern.” The pulse of spirit healing she had learned from her friend dissipates.

Fenris’ body ticks with nervous energy, he takes another step further down the hall, and when he turns back to face her his eyes are cold fire.

A thick lump has formed in Hawke’s throat. It sticks, regardless of her swallowing. Her usually quick tongue sags in her mouth, limp as a used rag. She takes a step closer, body aching for action in this moment, but he retreats twice as far away; blue fiery light casting sharp shadows across his face.

“You should not have come.” The words are hard. But she quirks an eyebrow that she’s not sure he sees.

“Leave my favourite elf in a fade nightmare? That would leave only my coin for Varric to take in Wicked Grace.” She says, holding back the humourless chuckle rising in her throat. He responds in acid tongue,

“Fasta vass, woman! If I cannot free myself, what is the point?”

“The point?” Heat rose to redden Hawke’s neck, “the point is coming back to the waking world where your friends are, not chasing your tail down here in the dark because you’re too proud to ask for help!”

“I didn’t ask for your _help_.” He sneers.

“You didn’t need to.” She replies before he even finishes the sentence, “Flames Fenris, of course I bloody came.”

He grunts and sharply turns on the spot. For a moment an ice knot ties itself in her gut; if he flees, she won’t find him. Not down here in the inky twisted paths of his fears. But he pivots just as quickly and begins to pace. She takes a deep breath.

“When that nightmare spell hit you I -” a moment while Hawke closes her eyes, dislodging the thick scramble of words fighting for release on the back of her tongue:

Lost my mind.

Lost all control.

Have never been so frightened.

“Thought you were gone,” truth she supposed, in a way, “and when Merrill -” he balks at her name, “- told me your spirit was gone, somewhere in the _fade_ …”

His pacing has slowed, but his arms still tremble with effort, fists clenched at his side. Her voice lowers to a whisper, struggling to breath the words she has to say before they can melt in her mouth,

“Maker, it felt like a nightmare of my own.”

“Having you here,” he snaps suddenly, “you witnessing _this_ ,” his hands spasm pathetically at his side as he gestures to the darkness, to his body, “is worse than any nightmare I allowed myself. Trust me.”

Merciless quiet. This place is absent of normal little noises; the kind you wouldn’t need to expect because they were as natural as the fold of your eyelids. Only noticed by their absence. No groans or weak creaks common of great sighing buildings in the night. The fade doesn’t account for little cricket lives or trees stretching if the dreamer doesn’t care to. The kind of quiet that doesn’t exist. Even the sound of their breathing seemed to be swallowed by shadows before it reached their ears. Hawke watched as the tension in Fenris’ body ebbed away, even as he struggled to keep it. Like trying to keep the strength of a wave in your arms. It was pulled out by the tide of sudden exhaustion in the air.

“Yes, well.” She said quietly, “I’m still not leaving you down here. I’m selfish like that.”

His limp fingers twitched at his side. The wisp above Hawke’s head bobbed, ignorant of whatever emotions choked them here, it made the hall shiver with hundreds of their shadows tickling the walls. They locked eyes for a moment. She was so very tired and he – he inclined his head once, features an eerie echo of blankness she remembered from his body in the warehouse.

“Follow me, Hawke.” He turns once more and strides down the hall. She takes his lead and hurries to his side. The way he moves in the darkness, barely acknowledging the twitching light of a wisp is enthralling. Even with his taut, controlled body making no apologies for the impossible amount of space it takes up in the waking world, he always looked a little out of place. Here though, the halls fell back as he stalked their lengths, a kind of familiarity that was both refreshing and painful in its reality. How many times in his dreams had he been forced to visit this place, that he can so easily navigate its tar-wrapped shell after nearly a decade of being free of it?

He stops so suddenly she runs into his back. Instead of the hiss she anticipates as she staggers off of his smooth skin, he chuckles. Did he do that on purpose?

“My quarters.” The rough wooden door in front of them looks like it would take less than a mouse’s sneeze to rattle down. But, she supposes, you don’t need locks when the shackles are around a bruised mind, not wrists.

“Are you ready, Hawke? This – will not be pleasant.” His brows knit together as he places his hand on the worn wooden handle; the only vaguely smooth surface that looks like it wouldn’t sink savage splinters into your skin at the slightest brush.

“I wasn’t expecting we’d be having tea with my mother in here.” She quipped.

“I took a meal with the abomination at one point.”

Hawke’s head snapped around to him.

“Really?” She gaped. But he simply frowned at her pointedly. Hawke huffed and turned back to the door,

“Look, this has been a challenge, alright? Stop messing with me, elf.”

 He snickered softly, before taking a slow breath. She followed suit.

“Ready.” She was not.

With a soft creak, the door opened to an impossible light. It stretched its tendrils ‘round them both, and drew the pair into its bright abyss.

 

***

“Stop. That.” Aveline groaned against her fingers; a makeshift muzzle locked around her face. Her elbows were resting on her knees as she sat, bowed on the stair case. Even in the shadowed stomach of the warehouse, Varric could see her fair skin beginning to rival her fiery hair.

“I’m. Bored.” Isabela stabbed out her punctuation with the tip of her knife as it buried into a found table, dragged from one of the abandoned offices. The sound _carried_.

Aveline loudly blew hot air from her nose, “count the rafters, go for a walk, fall off the docks, I don’t give a giant spider’s arse – just _stop that noise_.”

Isabela sighed mournfully. Before picking up the pace. She deftly drove the nose of her dagger into the soft wood again and again, circling her hand with speed. It made Varric cringe inwardly, the way each time she’d pluck the blade from its newly carved crevice it would always edge a little closer to the soft webbing of her fingers.

“Oh, for the love of – Varric!” Aveline’s hands fell from her face, hitting her knees in tight fists.

The dwarf slid next to the table, a little closer than he’d like to be to the rapid _pop-swish-thunk!_ of starlit steel.

“Rivani, if by some miracle you don’t chop your fingers off – ”

“ _I_ will.” Aveline grunted.

“And they sound rather detrimental to your line of work.” He finished, following the line of blurred metal as it cut through the air. _Pop-swish-thunk! Pop-swish-thunk!_

“We’ve been here for hours.” She said, her eyes locked onto her still hand as it lay splayed, tiny pockmarks surrounding it. The deep slice she’d made earlier in the night was pushed into the table’s splintery surface. Varric unconsciously fingered his own wound.

He glanced behind him; Merrill was knelt as she had been when they started this terrible plan, silent from the moment Hawke had crumbled into Isabela’s arms. If not a little paler than when they began. He didn’t know much about magic but he knew _he_ couldn’t sit for more than two solid hours writing at that intensity – and it had already been three hours.

_Pop-swish-thunk! Pop-swish-_ the blade clattered to the table.

“Thank the Maker.” Aveline breathed.

Isabela kicked the chair back from beneath her and stalked over to the quiet trio. Hawke was laid out carefully beside Fenris. Aveline had wanted to put her hands on her stomach as well, to mirror his, but Isabela had thought it looked too much like they were mourning slit-wrist lovers. So her arms were tucked snuggly along her body. Behind them and Merrill was the unconscious slaver, shackled to an exposed pipe for good measure. The pirate captain stuck her side out, resting her long fingers on her either hip and peered down at the elf.

“Don’t try to check his small’s colours again please.” Aveline’s voice had become lower than usual, the weight of this entire situation was pressing in on them all.

“They should be back. We should be gone.” Isabela threw a pout over her shoulder at Varric, “I should be drunk.”

“Go and find Anders if you’re feeling so cooped up.” Aveline’s tone lifted, not bothering to hide how pleasing she’d find the quiet without their rambunctious friend.

“Where did he _go_ , anyway?” Isabela asked.

“To do feathery rebel mage things, probably.” Varric reached over his back and smoothed a thumb over Bianca’s handle, “like putting wet foul feed in Templar pockets, or sacrificing said foul for his aesthetic, or – ”

“I went to get cards.” Anders appeared at the warehouse entrance, “couldn’t find any foul. Refugees probably ate them all.”

He strode in, rummaging in one of the small buttoned pouches he had at his waist, before drawing out a familiar deck.

“My cards.” Varric raised an eyebrow at the apostate.

“Norah nearly didn’t let me in. The Hanged man was _closing_. That’s how late it is.” He frowned, “how early.”

Isabela came up behind Anders, placing her good hand on his shoulder. She smiled sweetly, eyes twinkling,

“My hero.”

Anders huffed, “this was purely selfish. I was going to go mad if I had to listen to Aveline sharpen her sword any longer. Thank the maker you’ve stopped.” He glanced over at her and her hands rose to pinch the bridge of her nose, not noticing Isabela’s smug grin.

“I suppose we’re all unsurprisingly irritated.” She stood, her strained legs popping with the effort.

“And worried.” Anders added quietly, his eyes swinging down to his right, but he didn’t turn to look at Hawke.

Varric slipped his fingers over the pack in Anders’ hand and relieved him of them.

“Go grab some extra chairs. Might as well win some coin, seeing as we won’t be drinking when those two love birds wake up.”

Aveline turned and ascended the stairs two at a time, Anders followed her, somehow dragging his buckles against each step. Beside him, Isabela caught Varric’s eye for a moment and – a swift squeeze of his shoulder. No words. Nothing to say. Just: she’s worried too. They’re all bloody worried. Then she’s gone, dagger dragged off the table and back in its sheath on her back before she swaggers up the steps after the others.

Varric sighs softly, one more glance thrown over his shoulder at his best friend, lying still as the dead on the blood stained stone. Then he turns back to the table and does what any devilish rouge would do as he waits helpless to effect the outcome of his situation:

He cheats as he deals.

 

***

 

Fenris didn’t greet pain like an old friend. It was more an unliked but ever-present lodger that had over stayed their welcome. You acknowledge their presence – a civil nod, a courteous “hope your day goes well” – but nothing more, you just silently will for their tenure to be over.

Danarious had spared no expense in carving him into a weapon. What good was a blade that cried out when you sharpened it against a stone? He was silent unless questioned. Good slaves disappeared into the background like furniture: used and forgotten. Better for their masters, better for them – not to be seen, not to be thought of because as with all thoughts, inflicting pain was never far from a magister’s mind.

Great slaves though, were an extension of their masters themselves. A blade in the hand of an experienced rouge became just a deadly curve of their body. Searing splinters of ice shooting from a mage’s hand as much at home in their grasp as air in their lungs. Deadly, silent.

Which was why when his skin all at once became a vice, the lines of lyrium seeming to tighten like a string pulled over raw flesh and someone _screamed_ – it didn’t register straight away that it was him.

What a horse, unnatural sound – _and so loud_ – to come from his mouth. Fenris wore silence like armor and in one injection of liquid agony, someone had stripped him bare, brought his bones to dust.

He was distantly aware he was not standing any longer. Only by the hot yellow bricks biting at the flushed threads of lyrium that coursed over his knees. Once again dressed – barely. But this time leather straps curved around his upper body, hugging his arms to his chest so he could not scrape his fingers into his fresh lyrium wounds.

His name. Urgent.

Tears welled in his eyes, the small squat room suddenly blurry enough to make him aware he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings at all. Fire ran through his chest, rolled up his throat, bit into his chin. It didn’t pulse or beat it just ran its course like a mad rushing river. How it didn’t overflow, flooding his wrecked, shaking body he didn’t understand.

Someone was calling his name.

He wanted to let go, fall to his side and allow the fire to pull him apart but his muscles wouldn’t stop fighting no matter how much his mind ordered their release. Instead they tensed and strained against the pain. His chest heaved with the weight of every breath, as it expanded tight and hot beneath his crossed arms. His teeth were gritted, muffled groans forcing their way past his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment – block it out, block it out – but the theft of sight made his sense of touch all the greater and his eyes flew open to see – _Hawke_.

Her lips formed his name. The agony that rocked through his body was plain on her face. He concentrated harder. Watched for the word, heard it in his mind and finally out loud.

“Fenris. Look at me!” She was panting, her voice still strangely far away, a heavy blue storm at her finger tips, “I’m going to try and heal you. Tell me you understand this.”

No! Feral fear lit his eyes and he all but threw himself back against the wall. No more! No magic. She closed in on him again.

“It will help. Let me do this.” Her voice was strained, the lines curving around her mouth – she was yelling, but all he could hear was a whisper. The magic drew closer and he wanted to flee. But the wall was braced against his back.

“Trust me.” She shouted. She whispered.

He can’t reply, nonsensical moans forcing their way up his throat. But he nods once, and that’s all she needs. A torrent of rough healing magic breaks against his skin. He flinches, the cold wave somehow just as strong as the tidal of delicate fire. But it isn’t long till the mindless burn of agony retreats to a knife edge burying into his flesh instead. His limbs still feel like they’re lost in the constant toss of an unforgiving sea but the magic is cool, not hot.

He quiets, dragging in breath after breath until he has the strength to look into her eyes.

“What is this?” She demands, not of him but the room itself; fear boiling over into anger as it so easily does.

“My adjustment period.” He says softly, no energy left in his body for rage. He watches the healing magic continue to slam into his shaking chest. It curves around his restricted arms, rolls down his legs in a thick confining shell. Sweat has begun to bead on Hawke’s forehead, the weight of maintaining such a strong spell she is hardly familiar with, wearing into her already. As if reading his mind, she lets out a breathy sigh,

“I can’t keep this up. How do we get out of here?”

“Usually it continues until I lose consciousness.”

“Then we need to break the pattern, Fenris.”

His bones feel like ash inside his brittle skin, but he moves his head, takes in the room in a way he hasn’t been able to with the blinding pain not demanding every facet of focus. It’s hot and rough bricks bite at his tender skin. A darkly stained wooden door sits at the opposite side of the room, barely two metres away. Thick rivet-stabbed metal ribbing is lashed across its surface, a small barred window close to the top lets in the only light the room allows.

“Can you break down that door?” He asks and she cranes her neck to see it, for a brief moment fire licks at his skin but her attention returns in a heartbeat and it retreats back into a dull pierce of hurt.

“I’m not sure. Certainly not at the moment.” She nods at the curve of magic humming into his skin. There’s a breathlessness to her voice, but her healing remains a steady force. There is little time for talk.

“You have to stop. Now. And take out that door.”

“Fenris, even if I could – I’m low on mana as it is. I don’t have any potions.” Her hands are trembling, fingers starting to curve into claws at the effort. He shifts back against the wall, somehow draws her eyes to his with only his will. They are darkening, but a brilliant blue, shining still in the shadow heavy corner they’ve found themselves in.

“Hawke.” Her name tastes rich and low and _right_ in his mouth, “you have me.” His eyebrows raise slightly at her small frown. And then horror. Ah, clarity at last.

“Have you lost your mind?” She chokes, “I’m not going to pull the lyrium from your skin. I wouldn’t do that on a normal day, let alone when these wounds are so raw.”

“Choices are limited. I can take it.” He grunted.

“You’ll pass out before I can let off a force spell and we’ll be dragged into another nightmare.” He can see the rapid beat of her heart in the veins standing out on her neck. They pulse raggedly, pulling crimson to her pale cheeks.

“Or you’ll pass out now and I’ll be left to slowly fall unconscious with the same result.” Cutting pain still raced along the plump silver ribs of lyrium, Hawke’s magic was running low and they began to burn slightly. She looked hopeless, like she was a hairs breath from begging him – begging _him_ , as he lies against a wall in his own cell, buckled against his will. He wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m ready.” He says simply, because he believes he is. She shakes her head but the resolve – it’s not there. They have no choice. She takes a shaky breath and when they lock eyes once more, there is the strength of a thousand apologies shining in them. The healing magic slowly stops, like twisting off a faucet. And then the other thing begins, like breaking down a dam wall, he is caught and torn away from reality in an unbelievable wave of pain.

Instead of fire, there is molten hot steel pulling from his limbs. He can feel something leaving his flesh, like he is no longer whole, but the same moment it goes he is filled with the searing strength of agony. He can only see blackness, and it is an embrace he longs for – no!

He must stay conscious. Somehow sight returns to him, even though his vision is blurred, black spots threaten to engulf him. He screams for the anchor he hopes will secure him to this plain. It works, almost. He has doubled over, Hawke’s bowed legs in front of him. He can just identify another brutal cry ripped from his lips, before her body seems to disappear. A crash loud enough to cut through the deafening liquid hurt. The room shivers in his darkening vision.

Another impossibly loud crack and instead of darkness, yellow light floods his eyes.

 

***

 

The familiar scent of salt and shit greet them both. Fenris has never thought he’d be grateful to breathe deeply on the Kirkwall docks, but he fills his lungs again, this time slowly. He turns on the spot and spies Hawke examining a loose stone by the pier. Her lip is caught between her teeth, and an unbidden warmth works its way into his chest.

The cool, choked sunlight pales her skin. It was strangely gratifying to see her complexion fair again, away from the heat of his nightmare-conjured Minrathous. He finds he prefers her ghostly white skin where it belongs, where he first saw her in the seemingly constant winter of Kirkwall. There were, after all, much more pleasing ways of garnering a pink flush to her neck and cheeks.

The thought surprises him, but it is not unwelcome. He is full on free air and it felt as if the heavy earth of his memory he had been buried under was lifted. Like she had cracked such an immovable and impossible strength as the steel he had choked himself with and now there could be nothing but the heady rush of oxygen that entered his lungs. He will use it to tell her.

“I think – what I mean to say is that I _do_ owe you my thanks.” He takes a step towards her when she doesn’t move to even acknowledge his speaking.

She is crouched low, as she takes the rock between her fingers, confusion turning to annoyance on her face. She stands abruptly and lobs the stone into the water, following its trajectory. He tries again,

“I want to –”

“Fenris.” The way she says his name is a full stop. A flat hand held out in halting. Her eyes glaze over him, around him, she surveys their surroundings again before she turns to settle finally on his face. Her voice is low with worry,

“Why are we still in the fade?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, these dorks. I love them. What are you doing, Fenris? (I ask of the characters I wrote) Just have an eternal make-out session in the fade. You know you want to.  
> Anyway, ahem. Look forward to Warehouse gang banter, and Justicey Justice in the next chapter. Byeeee

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter is into the faaaade! *Goes back to my hole*


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